


Cunningly Carved Upon Me

by activevirtues



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Claiming, F/M, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Made For Each Other, Master/Slave, Multi, OT3, Porn With Plot, Threesome - F/M/M, Virginity or Celibacy Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-03-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 13:52:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/736408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/activevirtues/pseuds/activevirtues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Skilled men cunningly carved upon me<br/>Letters fair, in a farwaway land.<br/>Since have I crossed the salt-streams often,<br/>Carried in ships to countries strange.</p><p>(A Vikings AU, where Ragnar arrives at Lindisfarne in a rather different manner.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Adrift

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Scy](http://scy.dreamwidth.org), [sarkastic](http://sarkastic.livejournal.com), and [Lenore](http://scribblinlenore.livejournal.com) for audiencing. Additional hat-tip to [sparky](http://sparksforyoursoul.tumblr.com) for troubleshooting some of the Old English in here. All remaining mistakes are my own!

The waves slap Ragnar in the face as he tries to pull Floki back from the prow of the boat. Floki is shouting about Thor’s blessing, and thunder booms overhead as if in agreement - but Ragnar fears that he is mistaken, that this storm is carrying them to something else.

He takes a mouthful of salt water, and ducks as a wooden crate flies toward him, carried by wind and water and spilling apples across the deck. It is lost to the sea, but Floki doesn’t see it, or doesn’t worry. He is laughing into the storm now, his eyeblack trailing like tears down his hollow cheeks. More than anything, he looks like a madman - which, Ragnar supposes, he is.

“Sit down, madman!” he yells, tugging at Floki’s sodden tunic, but Floki shrugs him off, clinging like a limpet to the roaring serpent of the prow, and at that moment the wind catches Ragnar with such force that he stumbles back, slipping on the deck.

“Thor will not let us fail!” Floki crows at him, tipping his face up to the heavens. “We are blessed! We will fall in battle, or not at all!” And he laughs, audible even over the roar of the wind, as thunder booms like agreement.

Ragnar pushes himself to his feet and tries to make his way closer to Floki. It is slow going, the wind pummeling him from three sides at once. “Blessing or no, you can’t swim.”

“The waves cannot conquer this ship, for we are carried by fate.” He grins, manic. “And craftsmanship.”

This last reassures Ragnar, somehow, where exhortations to the gods had not, and he turns to sit, to return to the shelter of their tent, when a wave drops the boat out from under them and he falls hard on his side, rolling as a wave crashes over them.

He can’t get his feet under him - he can’t hear anything over the wind and the waves and the shouts of the men and the thunder, always the thunder.

When another crate knocks into him, he falls, and falls, and falls.

He kicks up toward the surface, but it seems to slip farther away. Or perhaps it’s that his vision is shading at the edges as he loses air, as the ice of the water freezes his body and his thoughts.

No, he thinks, and gives one final, massive kick.

In front of him is a piece of one of the crates, broken off and floating on the surface. He reaches toward it, pulls himself up, and breaks the surface.

It’s not much better than being underwater, but the rain washes the sting of the salt out of his eyes until he can look for the ship.

It’s gone.

Ragnar slumps back onto the crate, tilting his face up to the sky, clearing abruptly as the storm passes. He will die here, he thinks, or he won’t.

In the moment before he loses consciousness, he sees the shadow of a bird, perhaps one of Odin’s ravens, come to pluck out his eye - a price for knowledge, for the death he might yet steal from the gods. Then he sees nothing at all.

\---

The slide back into consciousness is slow and painful.

Ragnar hears voices, first, in a language that sounds jarring to his ears, and he knows he can’t be in Valhalla - but nothing else makes sense to him. Nothing is familiar.

He cannot slip back under. He must figure this out.

“ _Hit wacath_!” a voice whispers as Ragnar shifts beneath rough blankets. He lets out a little moan - he feels like he’s just come through a long battle, and every movement of the blankets against his skin brings the pain into sharp focus.

“Water,” he croaks, trying to open his eyes as he hears footsteps draw near.

“ _Drinc_ ,” comes a different voice, and then his head is being lifted up, wet wood pressed to his lips. He opens his mouth, just a bit, and cool water trickles in - better than beer, better than Lagertha’s mead, better than anything. Finally he can focus enough to open his eyes.

“ _Eower naman bethencest_?”

His vision is still blurred, a little, but he can make out wide blue eyes set in a pale face, a mess of dark hair, and he blinks to try to clear his sight, get a closer look.

“ _Eower naman bethencest?_ ” the man says again. “ _Cnaewest thu hwider thu bist?_ ”

The world swims into clarity as Ragnar brings a hand up to rub at his eyes, and he sees concern writ large across the face of a young man, soft-cheeked and frowning. “Where am I?” he croaks, no longer sure he’s not dead. “Who are you?”

The man jerks back, looking over his shoulder at the men behind him, sorting herbs on a long wooden table. They don’t seem to notice his change in posture, how he’s gone still like he’s seen a ghost. “You are from very far away,” the man says carefully in Ragnar’s tongue, colored with a strange accent Ragnar has never heard. “Very far indeed. What brought you here? Who are you?”

“We came by ship - the first of its kind, a craft blessed by the gods. A storm had us in its grip, and I...” Ragnar swallows around the dryness in his throat. “I was taken by the sea.”

“There were others?” the man asks, alarmed. “They will come for you?”

“No,” Ragnar croaks. He closes his eyes against the candlelight, suddenly overbright in the dark room. “Nobody will come for me.”

\---

He learns that the man’s name is Athelstan, that he is on an island called Lindisfarne, regarded as sacred by the men of the western lands. The men here, Ragnar learns, are tasked with keeping the rituals of some strange religion, forbidden from fighting and women and all the blessings the gods have given man to make life bearable, instead wearing their plain brown robes and their peculiar haircuts and tending to the land around the island. More than that, Athelstan will not say, clearly trying to spare what he regards as Ragnar’s addled memory.

The days pass slowly, the nights in fitful sleep, and Ragnar chafes at the restrictions his body has set for him. He aches to explore, to see the island beyond the sickroom, to see the western lands beyond the island. The other men, when they come to check on him, move silently like fish in water, and Ragnar would ignore them even if they spoke his tongue. They seem to view him as he might view an animal on the farm that has taken sick - something to be healed, but no more valuable or interesting.

Athelstan is different.

He comes a few times a day - usually at mealtimes, when Ragnar is too occupied with eating to ask the questions that seem to overwhelm him otherwise - and stays longer than the others. At first Ragnar thinks that it is a kindness on Athelstan’s part, knowing as he must that Ragnar feels like a man set adrift, lost in a world where nobody knows or understands him. Athelstan alone knows his tongue, and though their conversations are limited to Ragnar’s health and the weather on the island, it is as much a comfort as the food or water. When Athelstan is near, Ragnar is not left alone with his thoughts.

Soon, though, Ragnar begins to regain his strength, and Athelstan’s visits grow longer.

“Brother Osric brought mussels,” Athelstan begins one day, setting down a trencher. The mussels have been steamed open, fragrant with herbs, and Ragnar eats as Athelstan tells him about the struggles of Brother Osric to dig the shells out of the shoal. “He was determined, though,” Athelstan says, grinning, and his smile is - it’s bright, like Ragnar imagines Baldur must look when bestowing a blessing, filled with some sort of strange inner glow that Ragnar doesn’t entirely comprehend. He’s lost in it, for a moment, and almost doesn’t catch the last of what Athelstan is saying. “...as careful with the mussels as he is with a paintbrush. We keep telling him he needs to stick to his books.”

“Books?” Ragnar asks. “Do you also tend to them?”

Athelstan looks a little embarrassed. “Tending to the books is my primary duty - that, and singing the _officium divinum_. I am given to lead the Nones only, but those of us whom god has blessed with song must lend their voices to the singing of all the hours.”

“You must sing for me, then,” Ragnar says, “since the books are likely beyond my reach.”

“Grow your strength,” Athelstan says, handing him a piece of bread. “I remember a few songs from my youth - if we can put you to work, it might buy a song.”

A laugh escapes him, and he replies, “Your youth? I wonder you can remember something so long in the past.”

“I look young,” Athelstan says, “but I had a life, you know. Before this.” He smiles a little, eyes distant, and sips from Ragnar’s water cup. “I did not always reside on Lindisfarne.”

Finally, Ragnar thinks, and asks, “I have wondered how you came to learn my tongue.”

“It is a tale for another time,” Athelstan replies. “Perhaps another incentive for you to gain your strength, if you need such reasons.”

Ragnar eats his mussels, and doesn’t press him further. He has all the time in the world, these days.

\---

Athelstan keeps a meticulous account of his days, Ragnar realizes. He’s taking his first halting steps, gripping tight to Athelstan’s arm, and Athelstan says, “Your strength comes back quickly, Ragnar. You have only been with us - what, a week? God has guided your healing.”

Ragnar stands up straighter. “You have guided my healing. You, and Brother Halun’s tea.” He grimaces comically, knowing it will amuse Athelstan, and is rewarded with a laugh.

“It has done its work,” Athelstan says. “Shall we turn back?”

He finds they have walked the length of the room, and he reaches out with his free hand to rest against the rough wooden door. “A week inside,” he says almost to himself. “Time to end the short winter, perhaps.”

Athelstan steps forward, blocks his way. “Not yet,” he says. “These steps are for tomorrow.”

He lets Athelstan lead him back to the cot, and when he is settled and Athelstan is handing him a cup of Brother Halun’s awful tea, he says, “And what will you give me now, as reward for my hard work?”

“Hard work? You walked across the room. Drink your tea, Ragnar.”

“It was as much as you would let me do,” he points out. “It must qualify.”

Athelstan huffs out a breath. “I suppose it does, then,” he says. “You want to hear a song, then?”

“Something from your adventurous youth,” Ragnar says. “Nothing of your strange God, if I am to be rewarded for work.”

“I honor God in all things,” Athelstan replies, sipping at a cup of water, “but I’ll sing something vain and idle if it is your wish.”

“As vain and idle as I am,” Ragnar agrees, and tries to smile in the way that would have had Lagertha thwacking him on the arm and hissing, “Not until the washing is done, I have told you six times.”

Athelstan has closed his eyes, though, as if he is readying himself to pray to his god, and so Ragnar can watch as his cheeks seem to flush with color, like he’s doing something illicit.

And then he sings.

“ _Ongin mere secan, maewes ethel,_

_onsite saenacan, thaet thu sudh heonan_

_ofer merelade monnan findest,_

_thaer se theoden is thin on wenum._ ”

His voice is silk-rich, the tune joyful, and it’s nothing at all like the ghosts of song he hears from the chapel when he’s drifting off to sleep. It’s immediate, grounding. Ragnar feels it tug at him, and he realizes he’s sat up to listen, pulled forward like the tide to shore.

“ _Naegelde beagas; he genoh hafadh_

_Faedan goldes, feohgestreona_

_thaet he mid elthoede ethel healde,_

_faegre foldan haeletha, thea the her min wine._ ”

Athelstan’s eyes flutter open, then widen as he sees something in Ragnar’s expression, but his voice doesn’t falter.

“ _Nyde gebaeded, nacan ut athrong,_

_ond on ytha gelagu ana sceolde,_

_faran on flotweg, fordhsithes georn,_

_mengan merestreamas_.”

When he stops, Ragnar realizes he’s been holding his breath, not wanting to break the sound, and it all comes out in a gust. It embarrasses him, a little, and he ducks his head.

Athelstan, though - he looks pleased, eyes bright with a wash of rosy color still high on his cheeks. “It’s just a bit from a song I learned, growing up. I had a - a friend, who taught me.”

“Is it a love song, then?” Ragnar asks, curious.

“It is,” Athelstan says, “and it isn’t. It’s a song about a man cast out of his home, finding his way in the world. The people he lacks, and the people he - he finds, along the way.”

His gaze drops to Athelstan’s hands, thin-fingered and smooth, lacking the calluses of a farmer or a warrior. They worry at one sleeve of his tunic, picking at a seam, and Athelstan is avoiding his eyes. “An appropriate song, then,” Ragnar says lightly. “For you are far from your home, I think.”

“Yes,” Athelstan says, and when he looks up his expression is calm again. “Yes, I am. But I have found a new home here, among my brothers. And now you have found us as well.” He smiles and nudges the mug of bitter tea forward. “Drink the rest. Tomorrow, perhaps, you can see how the world outside has fared without you.”

\---

From the next morning on, he wakes early. The monks do not disturb him - he moves around them as they make their way to sing the morning prayers, and he is free to walk to garden, to squint toward the horizon and wonder what might have become of this place in another world.

He presses his luck more each day, until finally he makes it to the ocean, slips his boots off and lets the waves cover his feet. There is very little memory of the time he spent floating on the apple crate, pulled to Lindisfarne and the mercy of the brothers. When he searches his mind there is only cold, salt, the knowledge that he would die, and finally, at the end, the shadow of wings.

Athelstan finds him, of course. Ragnar is staring toward the horizon, seeing a ship that isn’t there, and his toes are numb. He barely notices the movement beside him - his skills are slipping, he thinks.

Athelstan tugs on his sleeve. “You should come inside.”

“My family is there,” he says, pointing. “Out there, to the east.” He stares at the spot, as if he could somehow fold up the distance between the Northlands and Lindisfarne, if only he wills it.

“I know you miss them,” Athelstan says. “Your children, your - your wife.” His hand rests on Ragnar’s arm now, something like comfort.

“They think me dead. It took convincing, to gather my men to sail as far as we did. Most in my land believe there is nothing to the west. I am lost to them.”

Athelstan’s shoulder bumps his as he steps closer. “I will pray for them,” he says. “And for you, that God’s plan for you may be revealed.”

“God’s plan,” he says, not bothering to hide the contempt in his voice. He looks down at Athelstan. “Your god cares nought for me, priest. I am not one of his. I told my gods I wanted knowledge, and was prepared to sacrifice. This is what they have given me.”

“What?” Athelstan asks. “What have they given you?”

“They have given me all the knowledge in the world, and no way to put it to use. They have shown me that when you ask the gods for a favor, you must be prepared to accept their whims. I have learned my lessons, Athelstan - I seek nothing from the gods, now, and hope they do the same. If not, I shall take it as it comes.” He laughs now, humorlessly, and tries to ignore the concern he sees in the furrow of Athelstan’s brow. “It appears I have no other choice.”

He turns his back on the sea, and Athelstan’s arm falls away. Ragnar lets himself be led back to the keep.

It takes a long while for him to feel warm again.

\---

He begins to learn the tongue of the monks from Athelstan, who is free with his smiles as Ragnar masters a new word or a tricky sound. As he grows in strength he is allowed to work in the gardens and the stables, and the brothers there are quick to correct his speech when he errs, though they mostly stay silent. He realizes soon enough that most of the prayers and the books the monks create are in yet a third tongue, which Athelstan calls Latin. “I cannot teach it to you,” Athelstan says apologetically. “It is not done, at least among our order, unless you would take the priesthood.”

“I don’t think the priesthood would suit me,” Ragnar says.

For some reason this makes Athelstan’s cheeks go pink. “No,” he agrees, “I don’t think it would.”

Though he understands nothing of the songs the monks sing, he grows to enjoy their music, the ritual of the hours, the way it orders his day. He enjoys even more when he can wheedle Athelstan into singing a song from his youth, and helping him understands the words of it he doesn’t yet know. Athelstan still seems not entirely comfortable singing outside the sanctuary, when it’s just the two of them digging mussels out of the shoal along the northeast edge of the island. If they’re alone, though, he almost always complies.

“If you were in my land,” Ragnar tells him, “you might be a skald, singing the deeds of the greatest warriors. Earls would shower you with gold, and women would throw themselves in your path.”

Athelstan’s fingers fumble at the herbs he’s picked, scattering a few on the ground. He stoops to pick them up. “I sing for the glory of my God, Ragnar, not for gold or fame or... or companionship.”

“You sing for me,” Ragnar points out.

“Yes,” Athelstan says, straightening up. He throws the herbs into his basket - a little more roughly, perhaps, than Ragnar thinks he meant to. “I sing for you, too.”

The days on Lindisfarne grow longer as the weeks crawl toward midsummer, and though the weather is never certain, there is never a storm so angry as the one that swept him to the island. Mostly the rain comes sporadically, the one unpredictable facet of life with the monks. The weather may change, but it seems that they do not - they have their books, their prayers, their songs, their animals, their garden, and their god. Ragnar chafes at it, and wonders again why Athelstan chose this life for himself.

He doesn’t ask, though, and on this matter Athelstan keeps his own counsel.

Then, the day before midsummer, the bells on the island begin to ring.

“There is a ship coming!” Brother Osric says, nearly tripping as he races into the room.

“But the ship from Hexham, it come next week?” Ragnar asks in his halting English.

Brother Osric shakes his head. “Not from Hexham. This ship comes from the East.”


	2. Finding

Lagertha leads his men into the keep. He meets her at the gates; she does not look surprised to see him.

“You were going to miss the harvest,” she greets him, and he catches her around the waist as she leaps into his arms.

“I knew,” she murmurs against his lips when he gasps for breath, “I knew you were alive. I knew I would find you.”

Her men - his men - have already begun to sack the keep. He hears cries begin from the chapel, where the monks gathered together in their fear. His men bellow out their war-songs, and if he listens he can make out the monk’s prayers to their dead god. “I waited,” he said. “I did not know, but I waited anyway.”

It’s the right thing to say, and she grins her iron-sharp smile and hands him a sword. “Show me what you found, then.”

He leads her through the abbey, past the finery that might draw the eye of his men. There is one thing alone he must save, one thing he can present to Lagertha - the finest gift Lindisfarne has to offer. He hopes he is not too late.

Athelstan hides in the sickroom, tucked behind a wooden screen. He’s clutching a book - Revelations of St. John, he’d said once before when Ragnar had asked. Knowledge of the future, he’d claimed, and Ragnar wondered whether there had been any signs of this.

His eyes are shut tight, and he murmurs soundless prayers, curling in on himself as he hears Ragnar approach. “Athelstan,” Ragnar says, and at that he sees Athelstan relax, open his eyes.

“Hide with me,” Athelstan says, reaching up to him. “We must be silent.” And then Lagertha steps around the screen, bloodied sword still in hand, and Athelstan grabs for him as if to pull Ragnar behind him. “Don’t hurt us, please!” he begs of Lagertha.

Lagertha draws closer. He hears her footsteps on the stone floor as she approaches the screen, and finally she asks, “This is what you have found, husband? A pretty little priest?”

Ragnar is looking at Athelstan, and so he sees the comprehension break over his face like a wave. He sees the anger there, the hurt. And when Athelstan looks up at him, still holding the hem of his tunic, he sees fear. It is not a pleasant thing, as it normally is.

“He is more than a priest, Lagertha. He is a skald.” He looks to Lagertha, steps away from Athelstan’s grasp. The answers are coming to him now, fast and perfect. “We can bring him with us, use his skills to make sure the earl cannot retaliate against you for coming after me. He can sing songs of our journey, and his voice will sway Kattegat and beyond to our cause.”

Lagertha sees the value in it, of course - he sees her look to Athelstan, taking in his vestments and strange hair, then moving to his face, seeking something in his eyes and finding it. “He must be ours, if this is to work,” she says. “We alone must know his true value before we put him to use.”

He nods. “We can always use another hand on the farm, and to watch after the children. None will question this.”

Athelstan speaks now, faltering. “What of the others? The monks who sheltered you when you were lost to all, who aided you in your hour of need - what of them?”

“You did that,” Ragnar says. “You cared for me, you sheltered me. You taught me your tongue, found my strength when the sea had taken it. You.” He turns to Lagertha. “Any we don’t kill, we take for slaves. There might be some who have value - I care not.”

Lagertha nods. “I’ll inform the men. Our skald must collect what he needs for the journey - nothing too much, though.” She smiles at Athelstan, not entirely kindly. It is the same smile she gets before she pushes Ragnar down to their bed, and it makes his blood heat. “Remember, skald, you’re our slave.”

“I’ll remember,” Athelstan says in a monotone.

“You know I must do this,” Ragnar says in English as Lagertha walks away. “This is only thing. This is keep you alive.”

Athelstan looks up at him. “They are your men. They will not hold their swords when you give instruction?”

“They are here for find me,” Ragnar says. “Today, I am their man. They will have spoils, Athelstan - what you ask me do?”

“You do as you must,” Athelstan says, shaking his head. Fear has given way to tiredness. “If this is the only way, I have to believe you. I don’t have any other choice.”

“No choice,” Ragnar agrees, pulling Athelstan to his feet. “This is protect, now. Trust.”

\---

“Welcome back, brother,” is all Rollo says when they board the ship, but the way he looks at Athelstan, like he’s questioning the value of wasting perfectly useful food and water on such a creature, speaks volumes. Ragnar tightens his grip on the rope he’s slipped around Athelstan’s pale neck, and looks to his men.

The voyage back to Kattegat is as calm as they could have hoped for, considering the time of year, but it is rough on the monks who have survived. Three of them die on the voyage, and Athelstan seems to grow bleaker, curling in on himself with unspoken grief as his men tip the bodies of his brothers over the side of the ship. The last of the men to die is Brother Cenwulf, who Rollo sends into the near-translucent water an hour away from port.

“May God rest your soul, Brother Cenwulf,” he hears Athelstan murmur as Cenwulf slips away.

Ragnar wishes he could make Athelstan see what he does: the high cliffs looming high above them, sentinels awaiting his return. The men are looking up, too, and the sun streams down on them from behind the fjords, lighting their way. There is beauty here unmatched by windswept Lindisfarne, and he finds himself hoping that fear and sadness do not color Athelstan’s impression of the Northlands. This is his home now, and it would be easier for everyone if he could come to love it.

He sees Athelstan’s eyes drift closed, though, and does not press.

Lagertha is the first off the ship when it pulls into Kattegat, and she is already arguing with the earl by the time he makes his way to the front of the crowd. She has told their story, it seems, and is letting the crowd shout their approval with a pleased expression on her face. As he approaches, pulling Athelstan behind him, she gestures. “He has sacrificed much, and the gods have rewarded him. Will you share in his reward? Will your men?” A cheer rises from the crowd at her words.

The earl looks pained. “You have twice defied me, woman.”

“The gods have seen fit to provide us with enough to compensate you for the trouble of our defiance,” she says. She is wreathed in triumph, the setting sun backlighting her hair like a crown. She knows she has won.

He needs to take her home, let her push him against their bed, hold her hips as she rides him, bury his face between her thighs and cover her cunt with his mouth. He needs her skin against his, her scent in his nose, her hands in his hair. He needs it now.

“Take the spoils to the hall,” the earl says, and his eyes flick back to where Ragnar stands, still gripping the rope around Athelstan’s neck. “All of them,” he adds.

Ragnar bites back a growl and gives a longing look toward his wife. In the end, though, he complies. There will be time.

\---

The cost of Earl Haraldson letting them have their victory proves to be the spoils of Lindisfarne. Each of them are permitted one treasure, and Ragnar has to carefully inspect several bejeweled crosses and engraved silver platters before picking up the end of Athelstan’s rope. “I have just realized,” he says, “that we are in need of help around our farmstead. This one might prove useful.”

Haraldson is unamused. “You would choose an underfed priest over riches worth more than the land your family has been given, Ragnar Lothbrok? Is this a jest?”

“I am content with what you have given my family,” Ragnar replies smoothly. “I would not want to take away from the treasure we bring you as tribute. This one will do.” He tugs at Athelstan’s rope for emphasis.

“Your choice is made.” Haraldson gestures, dismissive. “Let it be known.”

Athelstan stops after they’ve made their way out of the hall, nearing their camp at the edge of the town. He rubs at his neck where the rope abrades. “You’re certain this is necessary?” he asks in English, clearly skeptical. “The rope, all of it?”

“Necessary, yes,” Ragnar says, and then grins. “Also, is fun.”

“For you,” Athelstan mutters.

“Can be fun for you too. You see.” He tugs lightly at the rope, grins down at Athelstan. “Lagertha and I show you everything.”

Their farm is two and a half day’s journey from Kattegat, and if it weren’t growing dark they would start back. But Lagertha is waiting for them, fire already blazing and pallets laid out. “Did Haraldson suspect anything?” she asks.

“You know the man sees nothing more than what is under his nose,” Ragnar replies, letting Athelstan’s rope drop and sitting beside her. “Let us leave all thought of him behind.” He kisses her now, as he has wanted to since before they landed at Kattegat, since she found him, since he left her to go west. He drinks her in, lets her push him down against the pallet, and feels at home for the first time in too long.

Dimly he hears the packs Athelstan was carrying thud on the ground, but his hands are sliding up Lagertha’s thighs, and Thor himself could strike the ground beside them and he’d keep touching his wife.

Her hands steal beneath his shirt, nails scraping at his skin. “Your body has been missed,” she says, biting at his neck. There will be bruises later, he thinks, and Bjorn will roll his eyes at them like a prudish aunt. “You should be naked, so I can check that everything is where I left it.”

“I will fetch water,” Athelstan says from across the campfire, voice suddenly high and sounding like it has escaped his throat only with some difficulty.

He turns to look, but Lagertha tugs at his hair, baring his neck to her, and he can’t move. “Don’t stray too far, priest,” she says. “It can be dangerous in the dark. Come back to us soon.” Then her mouth finds Ragnar’s once more, and her hands slip into his trousers. He doesn’t see where Athelstan goes, or hear him leave.

“You care for the little priest,” she says as she pushes his shirt off his shoulders. He is mostly naked now, clothes scattered around their pallet. He feels no cold, only Lagertha’s hands lighting little fires under his skin. “He warmed your bed on the island?”

“My bed has been cold until this moment,” he murmurs against her collarbone. Her skin tastes of salt, of sea spray and sweat they have yet to wash off. “You warm me through, wife.”

“You would have him, though,” she says, sliding up his chest. She is straddling him now, and his thumbs press bruises into the skin above her hipbones as he mouths at her stomach. In this, at least for the moment, he goes where she leads him. He listens to her breath catch, and then she says, “We could have him, when he returns.”

He hums against her hip, assent. Her thighs press him into the pallet, and he shoves her skirt up toward her waist. “You would tempt him more if you wore less, you know.” Hitching up, he bites at the meat of her thigh, and she laughs, breathless.

“He is young, and he doesn’t know how to ask for what he wants. At this point, I think anything would tempt him.” But she pulls her shirt off anyway, and lets him help her with her skirt.

When Athelstan returns, Ragnar has her ass in both hands, one leg on each side of his face. She’s so wet, she’s dripping down her pale thighs and onto his face. He sucks at her clit in little bursts, and he has to hold her very still so he can keep breathing. And then she says, “You found the creek?”

Ragnar shifts one hand, works it around to her thigh so she’s spread wider. In the firelight she glistens, and he wonders what they look like to Athelstan. He slips a finger into her, watches where it enters her body.

“It was - yes. Do you need me to leave?” Athelstan coughs as Ragnar slides his tongue around the edge of her entrance where his finger has begun a slow, slick movement. “Only it’s just that married men and women of my people generally do this when they are alone.”

Ragnar makes an amused noise, and Lagertha gives a little moan. “No,” she says, “don’t leave. I need your help.”

Ragnar turns his head so he can see Athelstan, dimly lit by the fire, and sucks a bruise onto Lagertha’s skin where her leg meets her hip. Athelstan, his timid Athelstan, actually takes a step back.

“My vows forbid me from touching a woman,” Athelstan begins.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that right now if you don’t want to,” Lagertha says, and then kicks Ragnar in the side. “Did I tell you to stop, husband? Come closer, priest, I mislike squinting into the fire.”

He begins to thrust again with his fingers, adding a second as Athelstan steps around the fire to approach them. She squirms on them with a pleased little sound, and shifts up. He thinks, though he cannot be certain, that it is only now Athelstan truly sees them in their nakedness. Athelstan’s breath catches in his throat, and he stumbles a bit as he steps around the fire. Lagertha’s heels drive into him once more, and he flicks the tip of his tongue against her clit in apology. She leads him in this, and he will allow her to handle it.

“Can you see our problem?” she asks Athelstan. “No?”

“I am...” He sets the waterskins down with more care than they require. “I am unfamiliar with situations such as these.”

“My husband is in need of release,” she says, voice throaty. She clenches on his fingers as he picks up speed with his tongue, and really, he is impressed that she can continue speaking at all. “His cock grows hard, but he occupies me with his mouth and I cannot oblige him. You must help him now, ease his discomfort.”

He wishes he could see Athelstan, who takes a long moment before speaking. “He does look rather, uh." He pauses, seeming to search for the right word. "Strained.”

Ragnar should remember, he thinks, to trust Lagertha in all things.

“He needs you, priest,” Lagertha says. “Come, take him in your hands.”

The silence stretches on, broken only by the wet noises he makes into Lagertha’s cunt and the gasping breaths that shudder out of her as his mouth picks up the pace. Then, finally, he feels Athelstan sit beside him. “I don’t know what to do,” he says.

“Use one hand first,” she tells him, and Ragnar feels fingers stroke tentatively down the length of his cock. He moans against Lagertha and is rewarded with a tug of his hair, a reminder to keep going. She is breathy when she speaks again. “Wrap it around there, at the trunk - a little tighter, we want him to feel it.”

“Surely he must feel it,” Athelstan says incredulously, but complies. He grips Ragnar fully now, still unsure, waiting for Lagertha’s instruction.

“Now,” she says, “slide up to the tip, and back down, same as you would when taking yourself in hand.”

“I never,” Athelstan begins, but whatever he says is lost to Ragnar over the roaring in his ears. There is the slide of Athelstan’s hands, the taste and scent of his wife, and it is all more than he’s had in months, more than he thought he would ever have again. He does not lose himself - he is no callow youth, to spill his seed at one touch of a hand not his own - but for a moment, everything feels new.

“...will not touch you, if that is your wish,” Lagertha is saying, and he wants to push her to the edge, wants her to come undone on his mouth and hands. She has done her work - Athelstan’s hand is steady on his cock now, slow and easy, and Lagertha deserves her reward.

Slipping a third finger into her, he spreads her wider and rubs at a spot inside her that has her bucking against his mouth. She’s clenching around him now, rhythmic and tight, and he drives her up, up, sucking hard at her clit in time with the pace his fingers are setting for her. “Take him faster,” she says, looking over her shoulder at Athelstan, and Ragnar feels him speed up as Lagertha repeats, “Faster, fast, come on,” and shakes apart.

When she rolls off of him he tries to hold her tight - he has waited too long for the taste of her on his tongue to let it go again so easily. But she shoves him away, and for the first time he sees Athelstan, one hand working Ragnar’s cock, the other...

The other is clutching the fur of the pallet like a lifeline.

“If you will not touch yourself,” Lagertha says, voice languid, “you might use your other hand on Ragnar.”

Athelstan seems in a daze - his blue eyes are feverbright, and his hand as he unclenches it from the pallet is shaking. He looks at Ragnar like a creature he has never seen, like a mystery being revealed to him, and then at his hand. “What do I do?”

He watches Athelstan as Lagertha sighs. “Stroke him lower, priest. Feel the weight of his bollocks in your other hand – feel how full he is, ready to spill if you let him.”

Athelstan’s mouth has drifted open, bitten red like a berry on the vine, and his eyes dart between Ragnar’s face and his cock as he follows Lagertha’s instructions. “Will it be better,” Athelstan asks her, “if he spills quickly?”

“Better for whom?” Lagertha asks. Ragnar glances back at her, and one of her hands has drifted down to the blond curls at the juncture of her legs. She is stroking through them, just a thought of pleasure past, or pleasure yet to come. “For him, I think he might want to last. The more you push him, the better he likes it.” Her finger brushes against her clit, and she gives a delicate shudder.

He looks back to Athelstan. “I want him to like it,” Athelstan says, low and soft. His thumb traces over the crown of Ragnar’s cock, thumbnail catching at the foreskin. It sends a shock of pleasure through him, pulling a low rumble out of him that sounds wrecked even to his ears.

“He does,” Lagertha says. “Look at him.”

Athelstan’s eyes find his.

“Speed up, and grip him harder,” Lagertha says. “See, his legs fall open for you - he would let you do anything to him, now, if it meant you would keep touching him. Slip your hand between his thighs, and you can feel how soft he is.”

“I want,” Athelstan begins, and his grip on Ragnar’s cock tightens perfectly. He feels it everywhere.

“You see how much he needs you,” Lagertha says. He can hear her touching herself, doesn’t have to look to know that she’s spread open if he cared to turn his head, shameless and perfect. Athelstan’s eyes land on her, and Ragnar sees them glaze over a little. He understands the expression perfectly. “You must give him what he needs, priest.”

“Anything,” Athelstan says, leaning into it now, eyes darting from Lagertha to Ragnar’s face to the work his hands are doing and back. He seems frantic, and his hand seems to lose its rhythm on Ragnar’s dick.

He still has yet to be touched, and Ragnar aches for him.

“You should taste him,” Lagertha says. “Put your mouth on him, and see how quickly he finds release.”

Athelstan’s hips jerk up, and Ragnar can see a tent in his robes that would have him wincing in sympathy if he weren’t on the edge of losing his mind. “It is - it must be a sin,” he begins, but Lagertha cuts him off.

“Do you deny him relief?” she asks. Her voice is suddenly steely, and if Athelstan can resist her command Ragnar thinks he must be a stronger man than most.  “I can bring him to completion, if you are unwilling.” She moves behind Ragnar, shifting just enough that even he, gone with need, can understand her intent.

“No,” Athelstan says on a gasp, “no, I will do what you ask, just please tell me what I need to do.”

Lagertha shoves onto the pallet near Ragnar’s shoulder. She bends to speak to him, tips of her breasts brushing against his skin. “Do you want me to tell him? Have him take you in his mouth, taste your seed?”

The noise he makes in response doesn’t come close to any sort of recognizable word, but she understands. “Sit between his legs,” she tells Athelstan, who scrambles to comply. “Keep your hands on him, little priest - good, just like that. Now come forward and take him into your mouth, just at the tip.”

He can’t take his eyes off of Athelstan, who visibly steels himself before leaning in. Athelstan licks his lips, and slowly, too slowly, his mouth drifts open and his breath ghosts over the head of Ragnar’s cock.

Ragnar can’t help it - he thrusts up, just a little, and sees the tip of his cock brush against Athelstan’s lips. When Athelstan’s eyes jerk up to meet his, Ragnar sees a small streak of his precome wet on pink skin, and he feels the words pulled out of him as if by a hook. “Please, Athelstan.” Then again, in English, “Please.”

Athelstan’s eyes widen, and he drags in a steadying breath before taking Ragnar in his mouth, warm and wet and perfect. “See what you do to him,” Lagertha says low in Ragnar’s ear, teeth following breath and making him shudder. Louder, to Athelstan, she says, “Now suck, little priest, and keep your hands moving.”

He won’t last. He can’t last. Lagertha is biting what is sure to be an angry bruise into his neck, pulling one of his hands back between her legs to bring her off again, and Athelstan’s hands quicken on him even as his mouth grows more confident. It is going to be too much.

“See what he does for you,” Lagertha says, just for him, almost inaudible over the slick noises they make. “His mouth is untouched, but it takes your cock perfectly.”

Then he’s coming, coming, and Athelstan is choking on his seed, jerking back with a shocked expression, and one last spurt paints a streak of white across the pink of his cheeks.

“I,” Athelstan begins, but he seems to lose his words, slumping back. His eyes close, and he brings one hand up to touch the seed dripping along his cheekbone.

Lagertha lets go of Ragnar’s hand, clearly done with it, and gives a startled laugh. “I was going to offer him your hand, husband,” she says, “but it seems Athelstan is determined to remain untouched.”

Ragnar sits up, as much as he can manage with muscles still singing from the force of his release, and sees a dark spot bloom against the fabric of Athelstan’s robes, visible even in the dying firelight. Athelstan’s eyes are still closed. Ragnar’s seed still paints his face, not yet wiped away.

He feels like he has been running a great distance, only to fall to an abrupt halt. He wants to memorize the image he sees before him, to call to mind again at his leisure.

“Clean him up,” he tells Lagertha finally, when nobody has moved for a few long moments. “We should sleep. The farm awaits our arrival.”

\---

Athelstan lets Lagertha get him clean, but doesn’t speak again that night. He makes his bed in the pallet at the far edge of the campfire, and even after Lagertha falls to sleep, head pillowed on Ragnar’s chest, his breathing remains uneven. Finally Ragnar stops listening to see if he is still awake and tries not to worry. Their journey will be long, and he wants to push them as far as possible when dawn comes.

They do not fuck in Athelstan’s presence again for the rest of the two day journey. He makes himself scarce until they come to completion, and neither Ragnar nor Lagertha, by unspoken agreement, say a word to him about it.

On the morning of the third day, they arrive at the farm.

Gyda rushes out to greet them, and Lagertha catches her up in her arms and says, "See, what did I tell you?"

Bjorn hangs back, conscious that he is not a boy to run into his father's arms as he might once have done. Lagertha frowns at him and chides, "Do we merit no welcome?"

"I'm so glad you're both back safely," Bjorn says, stepping forward after a moment. "It was getting tiring, being the man of the house. Who's that?"

He's looking warily at Athelstan, who is hanging back with an uncertain expression. "This is Athelstan," Ragnar says, ushering him forward. "He helped me when I was lost at sea, and I brought him here to help us. He is a part of our family now."

Bjorn looks skeptical. "He helped you?" he asks. "He doesn't look like much."

"He is a priest among his people," Ragnar says. "So he has learned many languages and knows many stories. He will help us on the farm in the day, and will tell you stories of his adventures at night."

"I haven't got any adventure stories," Athelstan says apologetically, and Bjorn gives him a look that seems to say, I knew it.

"You will remember some, I'm sure," Lagertha says, voice firm. "Now, let us go inside and show Athelstan his new home. I want to see what you've broken in our absence."

They do not take long to settle into a routine, Athelstan slotting into their lives as if he’s been there forever. He wakes before them in the mornings, carrying water from the well and greeting them with steaming mugs of tea.

“Tastes better than Brother Halun’s,” Ragnar says, grinning.

“I could probably find something similar, if you find you miss it,” Athelstan says with an answering smile.

During the day, he adds an extra pair of hands to help them with preparations for the harvest, which is quickly approaching. And at night, after a few days of pleading exhaustion and finding his bed early, Athelstan sings for them.

The first time he does it, Lagertha’s eyes snap to Ragnar’s. “You did not lie, husband,” she says after the last notes of Athelstan’s song fade. “He has a voice that all would listen to.”

Gyda is already demanding another song, clapping along and laughing as she tries to get Bjorn to dance. Bjorn, for his part, looks truly relaxed for the first time since Ragnar arrived home, and he supposes he has Athelstan to thank for that as well. They are all finding their footing, he thinks. Together they will make a space for Athelstan, and in time, Ragnar hopes, he will shape himself to fit it.


	3. Word and Deed

The children are in bed when Athelstan turns to them a few nights later and says, “The skalds of your people - what do they do?”

Lagertha looks pleased. “You have been thinking about our plan, then,” she says. “Skalds are - rare, and valued as such, among all the Northmen. It is one thing to be a singer of songs, entertainment for a cold night and a warm plate of food. It is another to tell of deeds and have the whole world listen. Those a skald sings of are remembered when they have gone to Valhalla - immortal as they drink with the gods, but immortal here in the world of men as well.”

Athelstan swallows visibly. Voice hoarse, he says, “You truly think I can be your skald?” He looks from Lagertha to Ragnar. “I’m a priest. I’m no poet. I have no tales to tell - and right now, you have no tales for me to tell.”

“We will,” Ragnar says. He leans into Athelstan’s space, wills him to believe. “We will, and you will know exactly what to say. You were meant to find your way to us, Athelstan. Not to care for our children or milk our cows or warm our bed. You were made for this.”

“I was made to be a _priest_!” His voice rises high, and he seems to be bordering on hysteria now.

“You were made for us,” Lagertha says.

He reaches out, resting a hand on Athelstan’s shoulder as he searches for the right words. Gently he says, “If this were not the will of the gods - yours and mine - why would you be here with us?”

Athelstan bows his head. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I have been seeking answers and finding none.”

Ragnar brings his hand up to the side of Athelstan’s face, tilts it up to look at him. “Stop seeking,” he tells Athelstan. “Stop trying to search for things that are not there. There is no answer to find - the gods do what they will, and we are left to make the best of it.”

Athelstan nods slowly, closing his eyes as if he is speaking to his god - whether in supplication or farewell, Ragnar is unsure. It throws him off, for a moment, wondering if this is all the answer he is to receive, and he waits. The furrow in Athelstan’s brow grows deeper, more worried, and finally on impulse Ragnar leans in and brushes his lips against Athelstan’s.

It doesn’t really start out as a kiss, not really - even the kisses Ragnar stole from the fisherman’s daughter when he was 11 were wilder, a messy press of lips that had them both laughing and wondering what it was they were meant to do to kiss in the manner of adults. No, what he and Athelstan are doing is a sharing of breath, a giving of comfort in the only way Ragnar can think to be understood.

He is not a gentle man - it does not sit easily on his shoulders, and all of this would be easier if he could bash a sword at Athelstan’s worries and pull him quickly behind Lagertha’s shield until they are all on firmer ground. This is the hard way.

Taking a deep breath, he deepens the kiss.

Athelstan’s mouth opens on a soft little sigh. Ragnar sips at his mouth, tasting him for the first time. His lips are chapped, a little awkard as they slant under his, and his breath still carries the ale from dinner, but he lets Ragnar take his time and all of it adds to the laziness of the kiss. They melt into each other, and when Ragnar finally pulls back Athelstan’s lips catch at his, following him up like he can’t bear to let go.

“Say you are ours,” Lagertha demands quietly, watching them in assessment from the far end of the table. “Say you will do this with us.”

“I don’t know how,” Athelstan says, eyes still closed.

Ragnar leans down and scrapes his teeth gently along the shell of Athelstan’s ear. “Say you are ours,” he says, “and we will make our way together.”

On a wordless shudder Athelstan turns his face to Ragnar, and then they are kissing again, fierce and artless, an answer in all but name.

Lagertha is moving behind them, and as he takes Athelstan’s mouth he hears her footsteps, feels her hand slide into his hair. She sucks a bruise into his neck, and it makes him pull Athelstan closer to him, bite at his lower lip to see what Athelstan will do. His hands come up to Ragnar’s shoulders, one of them finding Lagertha’s.

It is the first time he has touched her. Ragnar finds himself smiling into Athelstan’s mouth, because this - this feels like a vow.

She pulls them to the bedroom, and they fall into the bed together, Athelstan between them. He looks at each of them in turn as if for instruction, and Ragnar traces the shape of him beneath his tunic before pushing it up. The skin of his stomach is milk pale, and he doesn’t have a warrior’s hard muscle. Athelstan has lived a life in the service of a dead god, Ragnar thinks, one who collects gold and jewels and people, shuts the most treasured among his hoard away from grasping hands without realizing that beauty of form and strength of purpose shines brightest when admired by one with the skill to put it to use.

Ragnar intends them to use all of Athelstan, mind and body, until none can dispute their claim.

Lagertha is watching him, and must see something in his expression as an invitation, because she spreads a hand across Athelstan’s chest and slowly scrapes her nails down, four thin lines of red rising up in her wake. Athelstan’s hips jerk up, breath catching in his throat, and she follows the trail she just made with her mouth. Ragnar helps her with Athelstan’s trousers, tugging at the lacings, and she licks at his hipbone as Ragnar pulls the fabric aside to free Athelstan’s cock.

“Look at him,” she murmurs against Athelstan’s skin. “See how much he needs us.”

Athelstan is shaking now, as if he were naked in the dead of winter, and his mouth is shaping words that Ragnar thinks he might understand if they were spoken aloud. If they are pleas, Ragnar wants to give in.

“Will you take him in hand?” Lagertha asks, and Athelstan’s hips snap up again, wordless assent.

Ragnar can deny them nothing, he thinks.

He leans in to kiss his wife as his hand slides up to wrap around Athelstan’s cock, and she sighs into his mouth, her hands twisting at his hair. She has never been afraid to lead him, and he lets her deepen the kiss. Athelstan’s cock is leaking precome, twitching into Ragnar’s hand, so he thumbs at the head, pushing back the foreskin and spreading the slickness as far as he can before moving slowly down the length.

“I can’t,” Athelstan begins, and it takes a moment for Ragnar to realize he’s speaking English now.

“You can,” Ragnar answers him. “You are ours, and you can.” His hand tightens on Athelstan’s cock, and Lagertha bites at his neck as she wraps her hand around his, speeding them up.

“ _Yours_ ,” Athelstan moans, and spills into their hands all at once, shaking in their grip as they pull every last spurt of seed from him.

They pull Athelstan’s shirt off, wiping their hands off on it, and Lagertha kisses Athelstan as Ragnar licks at the splatters of come on his stomach, cleaning him until all he can taste is the salt of his skin. This is unexplored land, he thinks, untouched by any hands but theirs. The thought of it warms him, and he bites at the skin under Athelstan’s nipple, marking him like the act of raising a bruise can stake their claim, make it permanent.

They are still mostly clothed, and suddenly all he wants is the press of their skin against his. He wants to touch them, to see them glow in the candlelight. So he says, “Come on, off,” and starts tugging at Lagertha’s clothes, making way for Athelstan to help him with his, until at last they are naked, wrapped up in one another.

“I think,” Lagertha says, “our skald might need an example set for him.” Her hand is playing with Ragnar’s bollocks now, weighing them in her hands and tracing down the seam with the pad of her thumb. The other is resting lightly on Athelstan’s ribcage, and she trails it up his chest to cup his cheek. “See how he blushes so prettily when we touch him? Imagine the color we could raise if we fucked.”

“You should,” Athelstan says, and for a moment seems startled to hear his own voice. “I mean, you have given me my - comfort. You should find your own.”

It makes Ragnar smile. “Stay, and aid us,” he says. “You may find that the need rises again in you to seek the release of our touch.”

Athelstan blinks at him. “I hadn’t thought to leave?” he says, confused.

“Good,” Lagertha says, slapping him lightly on the cheek. “The night stretches on, and we are far from finished with you.”

Ragnar lets Lagertha ride him, as she prefers. Her body, as she sinks down on his cock, stretches out like a bridge between him and Athelstan, and he watches her pull Athelstan - _theirs, theirs_ , he thinks - into a bruising kiss that seems to go on forever. When she breaks it off he gasps for breath, and Ragnar gasps with him, because Lagertha is squeezing him tight and Athelstan’s blush runs down his chest and he has never seen anything like this in all his travels.

“He rises to meet our challenge,” Lagertha says. Her nails dig into the meat of his thigh as she leans back a little, letting them appreciate the soft sway of her breasts as she moves in rhythm. When he follows her gaze, he sees that Athelstan’s cock is becoming hard again, and one of his hands is clutching at the bedding while his other hand rests on Lagertha’s hip, held there by one of her hands.

“Still won’t touch his own cock,” Ragnar manages. He can’t think of Athelstan laying hands on himself or he will be lost. He focuses on the bite of Lagertha’s nails and the pain clears his head for a moment - but it is a near thing.

“If he won’t touch himself,” Lagertha says with a twist of her hips, “then it falls to you to care for him.” She pulls Athelstan’s hand away from her hips, swats him on his bottom like a naughty child and smiles at the little cry he gives. “Go up by Ragnar. He will show you something you will enjoy.”

Athelstan crawls up the bed, meeting Ragnar’s gaze unflinchingly - finally, Ragnar thinks, and reaches for him.

He pulls Athelstan’s hips in, bites at the same spot where his wife staked her claim earlier. It has since bloomed an angry red, and he coaxes more color from it, loving the sound it tears out of Athelstan.

“Come on,” Lagertha says breathlessly. “Show him what you know, husband.”

Ragnar trails his tongue across Athelstan’s hipbone, spiralling closer and closer to where his cock is swiftly growing to full hardness. When one of Athelstan’s hands twists into his hair, he decides that the time for preamble has come to an end and takes the head of Athelstan’s cock into his mouth.

“Watch yourself take his mouth,” Lagertha pants, driving their pace higher as Ragnar feels her begin to clench around him. He looks up at Athelstan, brings a hand up to cup his ballocks as he sucks hard at the head of his cock. Athelstan is staring down at him, storm-blue eyes wide with wonder, pupils blown wide in the firelight. They have wrecked him, Ragner thinks, and lets himself moan around Athelstan’s cock.

He can hear Lagertha cry out, and feels her fingers at the place where they are joined, rubbing at her clit as she clenches around him. “Swallow him,” she says, nails digging harder into his thigh, and he can’t help but take Athelstan deeper, feeling him pulse at the back of his throat. He is all sensation, now, taking and taken, wrapped so thoroughly in these people that he can’t untwist himself from the pleasure he feels.

He can’t last - and when Athelstan says, “ _Please_ ,” in a voice hoarse with need, he slams up into Lagertha, fills her with his seed and feels her clench and pulse around him, taking him all the way. “Please, please, please,” Athelstan is saying, and Ragnar feels the buzz of his release moments before he swallows down the hot salt of his come, choking a little as it fills his throat.

When he finds himself again, the first thing that registers is the tangle of limbs, the drape of Lagertha’s hair across his stomach, the silk of Athelstan’s skin against his fingertips. Ragnar is warm and slick with sweat, and if he could he would live the rest of his life like this. But no, there are promises to fulfill, most of all to himself, to the gods that set him adrift, to the people who found him empty and filled him up.

Athelstan stirs beside him, makes a noise of discontent that has Ragnar shifting to look at him. It takes him a moment to register the tears that shine on Athelstan’s cheeks. “What is it?” Ragnar asks him, brushing a tear away with his thumb.

“I thought,” Athelstan says, voice shaky, “when we joined together, that I would feel a sign - a disconnect from the world, in retribution for the forsaking of my vows. I have always thought that God punishes the wicked, that there is a just and righteous order the Lord has put in place. If what we have done is wicked, why has he not turned from me? Why do I feel so...”

“Good?” Lagertha suggests gently.

Athelstan nods. “I know I am supposed to be ashamed for what I have done, and I am. I am, and I can’t help it. I have thrown aside my chastity, laid hands on another’s wife, lain with a man - I have done things my Lord has forbidden.” He takes a gasping breath as his words come quicker, tears falling on his cheeks. “And as I confess my sins here I feel the echoes of the joy I took in them, and I cannot understand why am I allowed to feel so good if what I have done is so bad.”

Ragnar’s hand is wet with Athelstan’s tears, now, and Lagertha is tucking herself under Athelstan’s arm, folded against his side with her hand on his heart. “I think you feel good because you are where you were meant to be,” Ragnar says finally. “You have a purpose beyond caring for treasure nobody but your god will ever see and singing songs nobody but your god will ever hear.”

“If you were not meant for this,” Lagertha says, “it would not be. You take joy because you were made for joy. You found Ragnar because he is yours, and we took you because you are ours.” Her eyes catch Ragnar’s, grinning her iron-edged smile, and he loves her fiercely. “We will see, as we go on, all the things that we can take for ourselves. Because the gods have blessed us, Athelstan - ours and yours.”

He has calmed himself at their words, tears drying up until all that’s left are shuddering breaths and the press of his body against theirs. “I would give you what I can,” Athelstan says at last. “And I would have you take what I cannot.”

\---

They present their skald to the thing at Kattegat three months after Lagertha and Ragnar return from the sacking of Hexham. It will be the last meeting of the men of their people before the long winter crashes over them, and Lagertha decides that it would suit them well to give them all something to think about as they shut themselves inside to wait for the spring to come. The three of them have spent hours going through the tales of the  day, the bravery of their men, Ragnar’s cunning, the attempted rape of Lagertha and her courage in its wake, the glitter of the swords left unguarded in the morning sun.

Athelstan sings their story for them again and again after days in the field, until Bjorn is scowling and even Gyda begs for a different song. At night, long after the children have gone to sleep, he murmurs it into the valley of Lagertha’s thighs, traces it along the bumps of Ragnar’s spine, shapes the words around moans as Ragnar fucks him slowly into the bed and Lagertha licks at his nipples.

Preparing for the thing, they clothe Athelstan in furs and jewels pried from Hexham’s treasures, befitting a skald of the highest skill. “You will dazzle them,” he tells Athelstan, who frowns.

“I’m supposed to dazzle them with my words, not my garments,” he replies

Lagertha laughs, brushing a hand over the crown of his head where his tonsure has grown in and ruffling the dark curls of his hair. “You can do both, and be twice as effective,” she says. “We must use all the strengths we have if we are to survive the fiercest of battles, my skald.”

“We fight with what we have,” Ragnar agrees. “The thing will be as much a battle for us as any we have yet faced. There will be resistance from Haraldson, from his men, from those who would not hear the truth of your words no matter how beautifully you sing them. When we do this, there is no turning back.”

Athelstan’s chin tilts up. “I would not want to turn back,” he says. “Not with what lies ahead of us.”

“You will conquer them with your songs, skald,” Lagertha says. “When the time is right, our swords will take care of what resistance remains.”

\---

“So,” Earl Haraldson says when the cheering has died away. He looks out across the crowd, who are still murmuring in approval. His expression is bleak. “Not just a farm slave, then.”

“No,” Ragnar says. “As it turns out, he was the only treasure from Lindisfarne worth keeping.”

**Author's Note:**

> The song Athelstan sings is lifted pretty much wholesale from the Old English poem ["The Husband's Message"](http://www8.georgetown.edu/departments/medieval/labyrinth/library/oe/texts/a3.32.html). [Here's the translation I used.](http://www.elfinspell.com/EarlyEnglishHusband.html) The title of the story is from the same poem.
> 
> [I'm on tumblr!](http://activevirtues.tumblr.com) My tumblr is Vikings, hockey, and Dylan O'Brien. If this sounds like your idea of a good time, then I guess you and I should talk.


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